


No raised alarm

by panamdea



Series: Bruises like watermarks [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole, Star Wars Legends: X-wing Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9670580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panamdea/pseuds/panamdea
Summary: He wants to shut his eyes and think, think,thinkfor a minute, figure out what's going on. But Mirax is gazing at him, concern that shouldn't be there seeping into her eyes, so he manages to smile at her instead and it isn't really an effort because his squadron isalive.When Wedge Antilles, believed dead after the battle over Distna, contacts New Republic Intelligence to propose an assault upon Ciutric, who is better placed to identify him than one of his oldest friends and squadmates? And how would Wes Janson, traumatised by the battle he believes killed his entire squadron, react?Set between chapters 28 and 29 ofIsard's Revenge.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There are obviously spoilers for _Isard's Revenge_ here.
> 
> I swear Wes is not suicidal, he just comes across that way sometimes. He is pretty unhappy though.
> 
> ~~~~~
> 
> You know that I fought with many and I won for some  
> We stared at ourselves 'til our breaking point  
> We wear our bruises like watermarks  
> The life and the death of the wild at heart  
> …  
> When was the moment it all fell apart  
> With no sign of warning, no raised alarm  
> We still wear our bruises, we show our scars  
> Forever the wild at heart  
>  _\- Wild at heart, Birds of Tokyo_
> 
> ~~~~~

The latest summons from General Cracken comes late in the day. The timing is unusual but otherwise Wes cannot muster much interest as he dutifully reports to the briefing room. It will be yet another futile attempt to dig information out of him that isn’t there; a series of questions he’s answered a dozen times or more in the weeks since the _Errant Venture_ deposited him back on Coruscant, all variations on _what happened out there, Major?_

He can’t answer them and he hates it.

He hates not knowing what happened after his memories of his last mission stop. All he has is an aching, guilty gap in his mind where the battle should be and the Rogues deserve a better memorial than that.

He hates that he is not just the sole survivor, but useless to the living and the dead with it.

He hates it. The questions. The loss. Himself. All of it. But despite how much he hates it, he cooperates and does his best to answer the unanswerable questions. Not just because it is his job and his duty, but because the pain is a small penance for his survival.

Today will be no different.

He knows he is wrong as the security warnings, (warnings threatening awful retribution he doesn’t care about), begin. This is not the same at all. As the hologram flickers to life the raw realisation of why crashes over him and everything he knows stops making sense under the sudden onslaught of too much information too quickly. His mind tangles, sluggish with emotions he can't quite grasp and too soon the recording ends, fading to dark.

He has only the space of a single aching heartbeat before a rush of new questions he is entirely unprepared for.

His voice as he answers is strangely calm to his own ears. He is reminded of how steady he sounds in the truncated recording of the battle he can’t remember (but which he knows by heart since he has had to watch and narrate it for his superiors, how many times now?) For a lurching moment he isn't quite sure when he is, can’t even attempt to build something coherent from the mess of disjointed facts and wild, judgement-clouding hope the last few weeks of grim certainty has fractured into.

_Is it real, Major?_

He fights the suffocating sense of panicky unreality and bolts as fast as he can as the meeting ends.

Even stunned and struggling to process what he has just learned he is aware he is being allowed to leave. He knows he won't be left unmonitored with news like this in his head, not with such high security invoked and certainly not when they aren't sure of him. He thinks of it as an escape regardless. Escape from the General and the intelligence analysts who want his opinions, from the psychologist watching his reactions too closely.

(It has never been said outright that they aren't sure of him but he knows. He doesn't resent it. How can he when he's seen his scenario from the other side before and knows how badly it can end? He has been jumping through their hoops for weeks as much to reassure himself as them.)

Away from the claustrophobic briefing room and the too-interested eyes, he moves on instinct. Out. Out into the open, up as high as he can get while planet-bound and fighter-less. Out, but not high enough.

His energy runs out abruptly on a deserted roof deck he's never seen before. Suddenly shaky he stares up at the sky to stars he cannot see, to space and freedom obscured by more than just the grey curtain of rain. The miserable weather is not unusual; he has often wondered how people stand Coruscant's near-constant dismal rain. Though nominally based on the Capitol the Rogues have always spent enough time deployed that they don't have to-

No. Too Soon. His mind shies away from the thought of his squadron. 

Fighting the feeling of dizzying unreality that hasn't left him he clings to the familiarity of the heavy rain, the water slick and metallic as the droplets beat against his upturned face. His mind searches skittishly for something else to think about and suddenly he is very aware of his hair plastered flat against his skull and curling damply at his neck. When had it got so long? It is getting longer than regulations permit and Wedge won’t care, but any day now some senior officer will–

Wedge won’t care. Wedge wouldn't… won't... 

Wedge. 

Is alive.

_The Rogues are alive._

No. Not all the Rogues, not Lyyr, not Khe-Jeen or Asyr. Not all the squadron have survived even this far and he should feel more guilt about not caring that it isn’t _all_ , but he doesn't yet because Hobbie and Wedge and Tycho are alive. Alive, alive….

“Wes? Are you…? _Wes?_ ”

With an effort, he blinks the water from his eyes –– just rainwater there aren't any tears, not yet, maybe never –– and drags his gaze away from the dark clouds to focus on the woman in front of him. He is dimly grateful it is Mirax and not some other minder from medical or intelligence that has followed him. Followed him, or been sent after him? Was she in the briefing? He can’t remember and barely notices enough to care. He wonders how long she’s been talking to him, how long he has been standing here letting the rain soak through to his skin, because she regards him now with uncertainty, wide smile fading as worry creeps across her face in its place.

“Wes, it’s good news, right? Wonderful news? They’re alive! Corran and Wedge. The Rogues are _alive_.”

He feels a twist of guilt for making her husband’s survival a matter of questionable joy so he doesn't tell her _there’s another battle coming and who knows who’ll survive it?_ It would be cruel to wipe the happiness from her eyes. And since she is a pilot’s wife, a pilot’s sister, she knows it anyway even if she can pretend otherwise for a while.

He almost says instead _my squadron’s out there without me_ but it would be futile, obvious. It doesn't feel real, it's just another disjointed fact he doesn't know what to do with yet. Besides, he can't help them now, he's useless, too far away, too grounded, too– 

What use had he been in the Rogue’s last battle anyway?

This thought has haunted him since he woke from bacta; a now familiar pulse of ragged pain behind his heart that some days doubles him over in guilt and grief. And now-

What use is he now? Maybe the squadron’s better off without him.

He nearly gasps at the stab of sick guilt accompanying this new thought. It feels so out of place but he can't shake it off. He should be happy, what is wrong with him?

He wants to shut his eyes and think, think, _think_ for a minute, figure out what's going on. But Mirax is gazing at him, concern that shouldn't be there seeping into her eyes, so he manages to smile at her instead and it isn't really an effort because his squadron is _alive_.

“It’s incredible, Mirax. Really incredible.” His voice cracks and he swallows against the lump in his throat that threatens to choke him and wonders distantly if this is happy because he doesn't really remember anymore. Mirax nods, the anxious look not leaving her, and he looks away, feeling a burning dampness in his eyes that now has nothing to do with the rain.

“They think I’m dead.” He blurts into the unhappy –– yes, it is unhappy and it shouldn’t be –– silence. He doesn't know why this is so important, why it worries him so much, but Wedge and Hobbie must think, they all must think, he's dead. They must assume the battle killed him.

Mustn't they?

“Wedge listed you as missing.” Mirax corrects him. “Listed bo… four of you as missing.” 

He misses the look of sudden guilt that flits across her face as she stumbles over her words because their sudden significance, the meaning of his unease, hits him in the gut. He doesn't hear the rest of what she says –– something about hope and proof that is supposed to be comforting –– because his mind is whirling through thoughts he knows, _knows_ , are unreasonable. Unreasonable and untrue and which he should dismiss out of hand because he should _trust_ , but which he can't force his mind away from. Truths he’s never before questioned– 

_die for them, die for me, brothers in arms, family_

–begin to crumble, undermined by the sharp guilty horror he’s been carrying silently since he woke. 

“Wes?” 

He pulls his mind back. It is harder, so much harder, this time than it was just minutes before because everything has suddenly changed. He blinks at Mirax, surprised to find he is still upright, that the rain is still hammering down around them. The Galaxy is still the same, still normal, still carrying on even as it had immediately after Distna when his own world fell apart. When he found himself alone, all unprepared for what came after losing everything except his life.

“I’m sorry, Mirax.” He manages. “I’m… It’s just… It’s just a bit much, you know?” 

Quick sympathy flashes across Mirax’s face and she nods again, understanding. Except she doesn't understand. She can't. But she doesn't stop him as he turns and walks away, rainwater sliding oily down his neck, the rhythm of his stride as steady as his breathing is uneven. 

And all he can think as he flees from Mirax’s happiness and concern, the words dropping into a silence in his mind as deep as the vacuum he should have died in, is _they left me. They left me._

_They_ left _me._


End file.
